


Red Eye

by Horribibble



Series: World University [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-28 22:34:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/679620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Horribibble/pseuds/Horribibble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a lot of things you have to adapt to in a dark room. Like chemical headaches, low lighting, and that funny feeling the lab assistant leaves in your stomach. </p><p>Rating will probably go up soon. oo</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Eye

**Author's Note:**

> Obvious photo-nerd at the helm, here. Not an expert, but still a passionate student. 
> 
> I'd love to see how people imagine these two in-universe, and I hope you enjoy.

There weren't many things that Matthew Williams could say he enjoyed these days. Oh, he'd gotten over the whole 'invisible brother' thing a while ago. He was in college, now.  
  
The same one as Alfred, of course, but his brother had been good enough to refrain from booming out yet another course of bitching and whining when Matt had requested separate rooming assignments.  
  
Instead, Matt shared a freshman dorm with Lars--a surprisingly easygoing pre-med major and the campus' current 'recreational facilitator'. At least that's what his friend Matthias called him, when they made their introductions. Or so he thought. Matthew had been a bit preoccupied with getting out from under the Dane's crushing half-hug.  
  
Apparently, he made a pathetic enough sight for Lars to wrestle the grip away himself, scolding the man in a distant Nordic tongue that the wispy blonde would come to recognize as Dutch.  
  
Matthias, for all of his apparent over friendly enthusiasm, let go when prompted, choosing instead to pat him firmly on the back. It occurred to him rather abruptly that it was the first time such a 'manly gesture' had not toppled him to the ground.  
  
And then Lars had brushed him off.  
  
Leaving him feel as if he had missed something. He flushed a bit, looking back and forth between his roommate and suite mate. Oh. Right.  
  
"I-I'm sorry. ...Recreational what?"  
  
Matthias opened his mouth wide, probably to enunciate more with an extra pinch of obnoxious laughter, but Lars slapped a hand over his mouth before rolling his eyes at Matthew.  
  
This, too, would become familiar in the coming semester. In fact, Matthew would adapt a similar maneuver and appropriate response.  
  
It was usually reserved for Matthias and most often translated to, 'You see what I have to deal with?' Unless it had been a rough day. Then it came closer to, 'Are we sure anyone would miss him?'  
  
But at the time, all it meant to Matthew was that someone in the room had earned the Netherlander's ire, and there was a fifty fifty chance...  
  
"He means I deal drugs."  
  
"...O-oh."  
  
"Never tried, before? S'okay. I won't push y-EW! What the _hell_ , Matthias?!"  
  
Lars started to scrub his 'tainted' hand furiously against the fabric of his worn t-shirt, and at that point all it took was the Dane's curious little eyebrow-waggle, tongue still poking out, to set Matthew off.  
  
He laughed until his belly hurt and he had to double over.  
  
His social life had grown from there. He wasn't exactly a 'butterfly', but it beat having the relationship web of an oyster.  
  
In short, friends weren't the problem.  
  
Family was.

 

* * *

  
  
Certainly, Matthew found it far easier to deal with Alfred--lovable twit that he was-- when he didn't have to see him every single day. Their relationship was a lot more rewarding when 'bonding time' was voluntary instead of enforced.  
  
Alfred was more like his only real ally in this mess. It used to be that Matthew wished his parents would notice him-- just for a minute. Just to look at the colorful ribbons and little certificates he brought home and displayed so modestly--the same way he displayed his artwork.  
  
To smile at them.  
  
Turned out it was a lot easier to ignore their complete psychological wreck when his education was public. Even now, he supposed, it wasn't really _him_ they were noticing. It was the little slot on the form that came with his tuition bill that no longer said 'Psychology'.  
  
An art major.  
  
The son that they had 'tried so hard to raise right' was a deadbeat art bum. His father had refused--horror of horrors--to speak to him. His mother had topped a grand (and surprisingly emotional) tirade with, "If you think you have talent, think again."  
  
Which was almost as funny as it was devastating--never once had his parents seen Matthew's artwork. Those precious, prize-winning pieces with their other son's signature at the bottom.  
  
And that last thought had inspired him, in a fit of masochism he thought he'd finally let go of so long ago. He asked, "Hey, mom? What's my name?"  
  
It was more than surprise that left her unable to answer promptly.  
  
Matthew hadn't expected much better.  
  
"It' s okay if you want to check the tuition letter. I'll wait."  
  
His voice was gentle, but for the first time in his conscious recollection, he was mocking her.  
  
Surprise, surprise. She noticed.  
  
He wished he could capture the look on her face forever, a commemorative shot on the day Liberty Jones realized she had, in fact, had twins, rather than a son and a pet rock.  
  
So he decided to take Manual Photography.  
  
His father had roared against it, and Alfred had done his best to play his advocate, but it had been their mother--pale as chalk and almost shaking--placing a hand on her husband's arm that closed the matter.  
  
She gave Matthew her father's old camera, and that had been it.  
  
Matthew stopped writing letters home.  
  


 

* * *

  
  
Psychology hadn't been for him. It was boring--filled with pretentious philosophy-snorting intellectuals who were just as eager to shove more money into Lars's open palm as they were to prove their academic capabilities.  
  
It tended to remind him of just how horribly warped he should (and may well) have been. That, and intro-level classes tended to meet around eight in the morning. Early-morning misery.  
  
On the bright side, he'd somehow managed to make a good impression on Professor Lukasiewics . ( Good enough for the Polish man to tell him what a, 'like, total sweetie' he was, anyway. ) While the man wasn't terribly well-versed in the expectations of art majors, he was happy to take Matthew on as a late advisee. Especially when he realized that his _original_ student advisor was Professor Braginsky.  
  
After that, there had been a lot of joint research and consultation to put Matthew on something resembling the right track. But starting something like dark room photography at any point other than day one was just bound to end in frustration.  
  
Which was pretty much right where he was now. In the dark room, after hours, staring at his developing tank--or what he could see of it--with tears in his eyes. The safe light kind of put a damper on his ability to discern anything but his own hand.  
  
The quiet whining and the sounds of overhead ventilation were pretty much the only noise besides his own pathetic soundtrack.  
  
He wasn't one to lie to himself.  
  
"You just had to take photography, eh? Couldn't just stick with studio art. Had to rub it in and try something 'new'."  
  
He'd tried to pay attention when the professor gave him the abridged run-through, but she'd seemed so busy...he just felt guilty for keeping her. So he'd lied through his teeth and pretended to be A-Okay with the breezy introduction.  
  
Stupid, stupid, stupid.  
  
He had just begun cursing himself in French when a heavy rumbling started. Instinct demanded that he scream, of course, which was probably why the next thing he heard was a less than pleasant, "What the _**fuck**_?!"  
  
The huddled blonde cracked open one eye, searching the darkness briefly before landing on a surprising shock of...was that white?  
  
It was still hard to make him out, but it was pretty obvious the new occupant wasn't a ghost or zombie or any other bullshit monster that Alfred could dub a 'classic' and scare himself shitless with.  
  
"S-sorry. You...you just scared me, that's all."  
  
There was a short bark of laughter--almost but not quite irritating--and the accented voice came back softer, "Jumpy, aren't ya?"  
  
"Shut up. It's dark in here." Matthew snapped before he could stop himself.  
  
"It's because you didn't turn on the light."  
  
"What are you talking about? Everything is red!"  
  
"That's the back-up, to save the good one. They're expensive, weißt du?"  
  
"There's a good one?"  
  
Another laugh, this time deeper and more genuine, and strong fingers wrapped around Matthew's wrist, pulling him up--"H-how the hell can you _see_?"  
  
"I am darkness."  
  
His arm was lifted, and something brushed his fingers.  
  
"I am the night."  
  
Matthew snorted, and allowed his fingers to be closed around it.  
  
"I...am..."  
  
They pulled the chain, and a brighter orange light spilled from the opened slats overhead.  
  
"Gilbert. _Wie gehts_?"  
  
"A...ah..."  
  
He hadn't been seeing things. The light was still colored--orange, this time--but it was enough to see by. The guy--Gilbert--had white hair and red eyes.  
  
"You're..."  
  
"Devastatingly handsome? The pinnacle of awesomeness? Ja. I know."  
  
He grinned, showing off pretty white teeth, and Matthew was halfway surprised to find him lacking fangs.  
  
'You're an albino.' was probably not the ideal response to someone who'd lived with the condition through hell and high school.  
  
"...still holding my hand."  
  
Not even a twitch, just a smug smirk that the man had probably spent ages perfecting, "Vell can you blame me? You're a real cutie, after all."  
  
And then Matt was pink enough for the both of them.  
  
Whatever he'd been about to say was quickly melted into a series of broken vowels and syllables. Gilbert took the opportunity to tickle his palm before releasing his hold on the shorter man's wrist.  
  
Matthew lowered his arm slowly, blinking after his strange companion as he busied himself gathering up supplies, "You're the late bloomer, right? Liz said there was a cute new kid."  
  
"You mean Miss Elizaveta?"  
  
A snort, and Gilbert looked back over his shoulder, "Please, Gott, drop the 'Miss'. She'll start whining about her 'biological clock' again." He put on a dramatic shudder, and Matthew felt himself relax a little.  
  
"Yeah...I tried to follow along, but..."  
  
"She went too fast."  
  
"...sort of."  
  
"Happens all the fucking time. She's either excited about the process or tripping over her ovaries to see 'Roooooderiiiich'." The name spilled out on a dreamy, effeminate sigh.  
  
Matthew _giggled_.  
  
"So why didn't you tell her she lost you?"  
  
"I, uh...didn't want to keep her..."  
  
Another snort. Gilbert turned fully to face him, eying him up and down as if to ascertain whether or not he was real.  
  
"Seriously?"  
  
Matthew nodded, and earned a strange little smile, "Wh-what...?"  
  
"That's sweet an' all, but I'm pretty sure she'd rather repeat a few things than see you flunk."  
  
"...It was more than a few things."  
  
"Then we'll go slow, ja?"  
  
A variety of polite refusals occurred to him, but he couldn't deny he could use the help. That, and...  
  
Well, it had felt really nice when the freaky German had called him cute.  
  
"Ja."

**Author's Note:**

> Check back under the series soon for a peek into the lives of various other students at World University, where we put the 'Fun' in 'Dysfunctional' and the 'Alcoholism' in 'Liberal Arts Education'.


End file.
